Revenge of the Dragon
by Athreya
Summary: Once,they were among the High Forty...laden with beauty,wealth and an empire spanning the known world,the Dragonlords answered to neither god nor man,save for the Fourteen w Valyria lies shattered,it's pride and dignity forgotten. The Targaryens have been ousted from the throne of Westeros. Can one hidden dragon bring back and surpass the glory of his ancestors? PLEASE REVIEW!
1. Chapter 1

He felt those eyes of his charge watch him, even as he did his best to ignore them. Those eyes were sharp, unnaturally so. Intelligence hid beneath those deep violet eyes, always planning, ever watchful. Ser Jory Cassel, instead, watched the proceedings of the court take place. Ned Stark was a grim young man. He passed judgment to those that sought his help, with fairness and justice as he saw fit. He was a good Warden of the North, and a true Northman, beloved by all the people this side of the world.

Jory resisted a sigh of relief, as the boy's attention turned away from him. Those penetrating eyes studied his father instead, and the woman that so hated him, and the rest of petitioners within the court. The rich merchants and a few foreign dignitaries, minor lords and all, and even the few smallfolk that have been lucky enough, had come to treat within Winterfell.

Once the court ended, and Ned had left, along with his wife, little Jon took to his feet and left for the Godswood. Shadowed, as always, by Jory. A strange thing for a captain of the guard to do, but do he must.

It had all started when the lady of Winterfell started suspecting the boy of some foul misdeeds, which Jory thought was foolish to have him waste his time on. Ned, of course, knew not of what she asked, and kept it quiet between the two of them. Jory would, of course, inform his lord by the morn of his Lady's suspicions and her demands.

"Sometimes, I wonder...," Ser Jory's features pulled into a frown, as he glanced at the bastard before him. He sat beneath a great heart tree, cross-legged and with an even breath. The bloody leaves crowned above him as if he were a king, and for a moment, the boy looked like a regal king, like how a Valyrian monarch resided in state,with his deep violet eyes and silver-gold hair. Jory sometimes mused that the Lord Stark must have bedded the last of the Blackfyres,or some other line with pure valyrian blood, for the boy did not have an ounce of the North in him. The ancient Valyrians had had sharp features,high and inhumanely beautiful. The Conqueror and his sister-wives had matched those looks. However,as the years passed, and the Targaryen line bred with Andals and Rhoynar, those pure valyrian looks had all but disappeared, save for the Valyrian colouring and pale skin. The bastard looked more valyrian than some of the Targaryen portraits he had seen, even more so than Prince Rhaegar whom he had only seen at the Tourney of Harrenhal.

"Boy?" He asked, uncertainly.

"This world is filled with strange wonders, ser knight".There was a solemness to this young lad. Barely eight namedays old, but the child he should have been had all but gone from this world. Was he ever a child? "Tell me, ser, have you ever wished to travel the world, and see the wonders with your own eyes?"

Jon Snow was the kin of the Warden of the North, Ned Stark. For a bastard, the boy spoke eloquently, and in a fine manner,more like a southron than any northmen he knew.

"I have travelled many times, boy," he said, as he watched the young bastard settle into contentment. "Alongside your father, I was there to watch him treat with many lords to some of the beautiful lands of Westeros. I was by his side as he made war against the Targaryens, and later against the Iron Born."

The bastard said nothing, as he looked grimly across the dark forest. The snow fell around them softly, and Jory could not help but shiver.

The boy reminded him far too much of the father, more than even his half-brother , the likeness was not in physical looks,but in that hint of frost in his violet eyes. The same freezing cold was in his lord father's eyes. Nothing escaped the boy's attention. Jon, so small and slight for his age, was not what his lady warned him against; that the boy was dangerous beyond reason. Jory could not see it. He was just a boy. What could a boy do? Yet, he could not help but feel ashamed when he gripped the hilt of his sword with much more pressure than he should. He is only a child, thought Jory. Only a child.

"I've made many plans, Ser Jory," Jon's voice brought him back to the present. "Plans, concessions, promises... there are many things I've done in secret to ensure that today comes to pass, without nary a thorn in my side."

Jory suddenly looked wary as he gazed upon his charge. This is not a normal child! The thought screamed inside his head, as he took a step forward. "What do you mean, boy?"

"My father the dreamer, the foolish king that fools himself as the saviour of the world," Jon chuckled, shaking his head despondently, "The king is a failure, and he was a failure as much as the father before him. Yet, I could not help but believe he achieved something."

Treasonous words. But it left him confused. What in the Old Gods and the New was he talking about? The king? Was this boy addled? And to call Ned a fool, the thought made him bristle with anger. "Boy, I suggest you watch your next words very carefully. What you may say will be reported to your father, and he will not be pleased. Hear that, boy?"

Ser Jory slapped his neck on instinct, alarmed, then pulled his hand away. He paled at the dart clutched within his fingers, dripping with poison. Before he could even reach three steps toward the bastard in anger, he fell to his knees, and slumped to the ground. The man was wrought with fear, as his limbs failed him. Jory never felt so helpless. The whole realm would laugh as he was bested by a child. The shame that would bring... to be lost without even lifting his sword...

The bastard dusted himself off from the hummus and the snow that caked his clothes, and knelt next to the captain. "Don't worry, it's only a paralyzing agent. You'll not die tonight. Tell your lord this; the day I come back is the day I will make war upon him, and take my throne for my own."

Mad! He was mad! "Y-you are of kin to House Stark... w-why betray us? Why betray your family?"

"Betray my family?" The boy asked. The boy cocked his head, then he unsheathed Jory's blade by his side. Jory struggled to move at the theft, and the boy's cowardice, as anger overcame his shame to budge. He couldn't move an inch. The boy's fingers danced upon the face of the steel, and smiled. "I'm trying to save them."

Mad! "M-mad! You're mad! The la-ady was right. No-... no one will support your claim to Winterfell. Not for a b-.. bastard!"

The boy shook his head, a melancholic heartache that seemed so alien on such a young lad. The blade was returned back to its sheath. Jon seemed lost, even helpless. It was as if he were looking into another world entirely. "I don't remember my father, but I do remember my mother. I remember the tower, and the bed of roses. I remember the stories she used to whisper, and the stories. Oh, the stories! She told me of how they married before a heart tree, once, and gave their vows. The love she had for my father..." Jory blinked in confusion. And dread. What had Ned done? Jon gave a soft smile, "You've always been by your lord's side, and you do your best to serve the Starks, and your loyalty would be well rewarded should circumstances differ, but alas..."

A moment passed, as Jon shared in the peace and quiet with the knight, and just as quickly shook his head.

Jon got to his feet once more and sighed. "Make sure you protect my family, will you? Tell them I will miss them. I'll be leaving them in your care. I can appreciate that, at the least. Goodbye, ser Jory Cassel. The next time I see you, it will be on the battlefield."

It was only two hours later, when a guard found him in the Godswood, did Jory inform Lord Stark of his son's betrayal.

The cloaked man that secreted him away out of the capital of the north, knew how to hide their tracks well. And Jon offered no complaints when they could not stop, lest they are captured. Fear drove them, as much as determination drove Jon.

They were long gone by then, even as pandamonium ran rampant throughout Winterfell. They will not find him.

It would take another few weeks before the boy was able to reach White Harbor, and with nothing but the clothes on Jon's back and a few golden dragons hidden beneath the sleeves of his shirt and pants.

For a small boy with no wealth, it would have been a dangerous thing, indeed, to carry around such coins. Jon was prepared, of course. A small cog awaited him, and a handful of men that ran it. The captain was a copper-skinned man that spoke of Dothraki lineage.

The captain nodded deeply, respectfully, as Jon bordered the cog. Another hour, and the cog left for Pentos, and eventually, they made their way to the Doom that awaited them. Old Valyria.

Jon looked upon the few dozens handpicked men that accompanied him to their doom. He knew none will survive. Only fools would follow him to where he went, but promises were made. And promises Jon had kept. Their families would be well received, with a few acres of lands and a manse of their own in Braavos. Their children will eat well, and be educated, and held a future that most smallfolk could have only dreamt of. The gold he had to steal barely affected the treasury of Winterfell, but caution must be kept, and the books must be cooked and balanced. His uncle was no fool, and whilst he might not have a knack for numbers, even he would notice the theft.

They really need a dedicated accounting management, thought Jon with dismay.

And now, Jon and his men sailed across the seas, and eventually crossed into the Smoking Sea. A perilous journey, which would eventually lead them to the dreaded island that spoke only of legends and death.

It was a long time before they managed to set foot on the legendary island.

The earth cracked, and spewed fire. Mists, humid and hot, clung to them like oil. Black ash fell from the red sky almost every night. Only dead trees and the crumbled ruins of an old civilization gave proof of a once thriving nation. The few homes Jon and his men entered, they shared their meals with the remnants of the decayed, ashes of the dead.

Some, knowing death had come, hugged their loved ones even as they died. Families shared their meals, arms outstretched. A few sat alone, with their arms crossed around their knees and eyes closed. The children were the worst of it all. They died quickly, he knew. The Doom was a painless one, which gave him comfort.

There was fear in all of them, in all their expressions Jon studied. And courage, also. Courage so great, it had left him weeping.

This was death in its purest form. The Doom was a reminder of the Valyrian's hubris, and Jon learned that lesson to heart.

What food they brought, was carefully sealed lest they were poisoned by the very air they breathed. It did not save the men, of course. The deeper they went into the island, the more deadly it became. The ashes fell as thick as his thumb, and the land was covered in black and fire. There was nothing here, nothing but death and misery.

Jon missed his home.

The food was eventually spoiled, and his men dropped dead one by one, either through burnt lungs or of hunger. The few that survived abandoned him, as despair set in. They sought their own deaths, and Jon was wise enough to let them go.

As hunger set in, and days passed, he ate what remained of the few dried beef he managed to bring along with him, poisoned, though, they were. It was the only thing that allowed him to force his march forward.

Jon wondered why he survived. How was he not poisoned? He was young, and his body fragile, yet he survived, determined to make way to place that he had dreamt of for the last year. Jon could not stop. He won't stop. He would never stop.

And so, a week past before he was able to follow the road that would eventually lead to one of the greatest civilizations that sprang on this side of this world.

And there, Jon found salvation.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The city was a ruin, a wretched thing blackened by fire and soot. Age and dust had given away to time, and it had done little to heal this once thriving land. The deeper he went, the darker the shadows the city cast upon him. And yet, there was magic in the air. So thick, like oil and fire that suffocated him to tears, and clogged his veins.

Jon's unfettered gait and steeled will pushed him forward, despite the hunger setting in and the thirst for water. Only iron will kept him strong, even as his lungs turned heavy, and his breath shallow. His eyes glazed red, and though he wished it not, he cried. He was a child, after all. How could any man, when even the hardest of men not break against the tide of fire and death? What was a child against the very hells on earth itself?

He was exhausted beyond belief, and whatever rations he had had been all but depleted. A single strip of beef to gnaw on was all that remained. Jon savored it for the very last time.

Still, he trudged on. The winding roads led him past the once tall monuments, now old remnants of a once past age. And the closer he drew, the closer that he would eventually find the heart of the capital that was once the most feared nation on this world. The tower was a massive construct, built of rock, steel, and brickwork that would have left even the grandest castle of Westeros to shame. Even age and fire had not deterred its magnificence, and though much of its structures had turned to dust and ruin, Jon could feel its mighty strength he would wish to build someday.

He would, in time, eventually enter into the massive tower, though the awe of the grand structure was not lost on him.

Going up was dangerous, and he did not doubt for a second the stairs would crumble beneath his feet and lead him to his death. So, he went down. That was where his answers lay. And down, and down, eventually hitting the mines miles beneath the ruins of the city.

Jon stumbled back in alarm, as the narrow rock walls broke beside him. Jon's skin split as shards of earth pierced flesh, and fell to the floor in pain and anguish.A creature of legends broke through. Its eyes of were of slitted gold as the points of candle fire watched him with hunger.

Firewyrm. Wingless creatures, more lizard than any dragon he had known from the history books. It's breath was as hot and stifling as the underground mines, and it would take but a moment for the creature's flames to turn him to cinders.

Jon looked up and met the predatory creature's gaze with his own. The size of it was small, barely larger than Jon. It must be a baby, barely a few years old. Running would prove little use, and the creature was fast enough to take his legs underneath him. He was small, slight, and weak.

Do not show fear. Never show fear. Never back down. It would only lead to death.

The boy bared his teeth in challenge, and pressed his mind into the creature without hesitation nor doubt. His fingers curled in fury, muscles taut and ready. It would take but a moment to bury the knife into the skull of the creature.

A moment passed. And another moment. Jon held the creature's eyes steady in its vision, unmoving. Sweat glistened from his brow, and the pressure within his heart felt like a hammer upon an anvil.

Perhaps it was the curiosity of a cat, or the instincts of his ancestors, but the firewyrm chuffed in greeting. It recognized its superior and turned back to its tunnel, giving one last whining growl before leaving Jon alone to his thoughts.

"Magnificent..." Jon muttered. A wonderful creature; all scales and the serpentine-like body. Its red and black scales seemed a dark red ruby that reflected off of the light from the flowing lava miles away from the tunnels.

There must be a den nearby. Its mother would be protective, and would see Jon as a threat. Of course, the creature would also see another meal for its babies. A regrettable outcome he wished to avoid. Jon left as quickly as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Hours must have passed by, and time had little meaning to Jon. Trapped underneath the mines of Old Valyria, the underground passages seemed to stretch on forever, until the tunnel finally stretched outward into a massive cavern before him. The rivers of magma flowed beneath him, and he could feel its heat even above.

Climbing down the wall was hard, and there was little to grab hold on to. Jon was only glad the walls were slightly sloped, otherwise it would have been infinitely harder. The heat from the rivers of liquid fire had turned the air hot, and the walls would have scalded and burnt any other man.

His fingers peeled and bloodied, his foot finally set upon the black rock beneath him. Veins of lava spiderwebbed underneath the rock, all leading to the massive rivers of fire. And there, a wall of flesh and scale rested within it.

"I've never been spiritual," Jon said, as his eyes captured the imposing golden glittering eyes before him. It was massive, and he had no doubt that the dragon was bigger perhaps, than even Balerion the Black Dread. "Or even religious. People have their faiths, their practices to lean on for comfort. They have their prophecies and signs and what-have-you to mark their way."

Jon stepped closer to the banks, just as the dragon raised its gargantuan flesh to inspect its newest visitor. The lava flowed around its leathery wings, dripping like rain no man would ever dare to stand beneath.

"Dreams are a precious thing, I've come to learn."Jon set his lone sack onto the ground, never taking his eyes from the black dragon. "Dreams can be used for healing, or a lesson to be learned. I've come to understand that. And yet, for so long I've been plagued by nightmares made real. When I look into the future, I see the dead; to the past, I see death. All I see is death wherever I look,"

Jon, haggard, weary, sighed harshly. His delicate shoulders felt the weight of the world pressed upon him. And he had come to realize his duty was too heavy to be carried. He could not carry this burden alone, and yet he must.

Steam coming from its nostrils with every breath as it drew closer toward Jon, curious of its new miracle that dared come before the ultimate predator. The pair of horns curved upon itself as it extended behind its head, and its teeth was as thick as his torso, and as long as swords. It was a terrifying sight to any man before its wrath.

"Doom! Doom! Doom! Fire and Blood! Fire and Blood!" Jon lowly intoned with rage in his heart, his fists clenched tightly. "I've dreamt for so long, and none heard my cries but my ancestors. Their ghosts whisper in my mind every night, and l hear their screams of vengeance and death."

Such a dragon, beautiful and monstrous beyond measure, would have been a great weapon against the world that would see him dead. With this, he could take back his lineage, his true birthright as his father had intended. None would stand against him. Not the Sunset Kingdoms, and not the Free Cities of Essos. Even Sothoryos would quake beneath the dragon's breath.

The dragon stood before the boy, and so close it was, Jon could feel its very breath wafting upon his skin. It's breath so hot, it would have scorched any man's eyes and boiled their blood. Jon only felt the warmth.

"Fire, and blood is it, O' Father Balerion?" Jon felt hot tears run down his cheeks. His heart drummed to the heat of the flames, and his chest grew hot as the heart of a dragon. "Doom! Doom! Doom!"

He could feel it in his veins and in his mind. It only grew.

Jon reached out with his hands, and he felt the scales on the monster. It was smooth, and only slightly warm, despite having risen from a pool of magma.

The dragon was still, watchful. Obedient. Good, that the dragon recognized its master.

"I could feel your eyes on me. So hear me, I will not be your vengeance. I will not be the instrument of destruction." Jon let his hands go, and reached into his sack. "You've had your time. So deliver to me your one last rite, your very last precious sacrament to this world! And I will use it as I see fit! If I am to do this at all, to bring back Valyrian might , I will do it unhindered by a God who refused to save his own people!"

A flash of smoky silver, and Jon thrust forward till it was buried to the hilt. Blood fell like a river, bathing the boy red from the most ancient of dragons. Flames erupted from the river, setting the boy alight instantly.

"Fire and Blood. Fire and Blood!" Jon screamed in pain. "Oh, look upon my sacrifice most worthy, Mighty God Balerion," Jon felt his flesh asunder, even as the ancient beast roared in pain. The ground shook from the sound, the power, and the cavern looked about ready to be caved in. The dragon slumped to the side by the boy, groaning in its death throes. "Look upon my previous gift, O' God, and **choke** on it."

Ice felt light in his grasp as he walked to where the heart of the dragon beat. Carving the chest open was a challange, and getting past the strong muscles and the ribs was a pain. The bones proved a difficult ordeal to cut through, but even that proved futile against the ancestral blade of the Starks. And there, the still beating heart of the beast. "Doom! Doom! Doom!"

His teeth found flesh.

All Jon knew was the heat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Grief at home**

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Lord Paramount and Warden of the North,thus the North's sovereign twice over,was all his power,all the search parties being sent out, there had been not a whisper of his son's whereabouts. He seemed to have vanished into thin air, despite the search commencing immediately after Jory had informed him of his son's Stark children were in no better a state.

Po

However, the household of Winterfell at large were torn between feeling elated and being grief-stricken. Jon's valyrian face had garnered him both scorn and admiring looks. Womenfolk in Wintertime gossiped over how beautiful the bastard of Winterfell was , with many believing he would become one of the most handsome men in Westeros. Many of the men, on the other hand, had hated Jon, filled with jealousy over a bastard being so comely. His sullen and brooding nature had not done him any favours either. Ned had shuddered every time someone praised Jon's looks , his mind rife with panic and worry that someone would soon make clear the secret of his true father.

He had always spread the rumour that Jon's mother was a Lyseni whore, despite the stain of his own honour, always remembering his sister's last words as she handed Jon to him.

Promise me,Ned.

He had strived the rest of his life to give Jon a safe home. He had failed in that regard. A bastard's life was all Jon had known, full of the knowledge that he would never be a true member of House Stark. Even the Greyjoy heir, Theon, despite being Ironborn, member of a people reviled and feared as a scourge in many parts of Westeros was treated better than Jon by his wife, Catelyn, formerly of House Tully. She had always disliked the boy, viewing him as a living symbol of his infidelity to her.

Being a worshipper of the Seven, whose religion condemned bastards as evil and untrustworthy, attributed to their origins, with most being born in the throes of lust, she had seemed glad to see the bastard finally gone, and was overheard remarking so to their eldest son, Robb, of how his birthright would now be secure with the bastard hopefully lying dead in some icy ditch in the North. Ned's restraint, which had characterized his moniker of the 'Quiet Wolf', had snapped then. He had had his lady wife confined to her chambers until further notice.

The household and his children had tiptoed around him with careful feet for the next sennight, wary of arousing his ire. Only Sansa,and Robb, had continued greeting him with the same question come the morn; Had any tidings been had of their missing brother? Arya and Bran were too young to take notice of their brother's absence, with Arya being only two namedays old, and only a year separating her and Bran. But there were more pressing concerns. Ravens had been sent to the Riverlands, conveying Jon's disappearance and requesting aid forthwith in finding him. Despite his longing to not leave a single stone uprooted in his search, he dared not request Robert's help. He feared what would happen if his old friend laid his gaze,so hateful towards those of Targaryen blood, on Jon.

Granted, Jon resembled the Valyrians of pure pedigree , but he did not wish to chance it in any circumstance. That had always puzzled him, Jon being seemingly more valyrian than his own father. He had quietly made sure that there was a cache of gold set aside in a old,unused chamber in Winterfell, within a stone's throw from Jon's. He had hoped that his son would discover it but hopefully attribute it's finding to great fortune granted by the gods, all so that, the Old Gods forbid, in the event that should Jon's true lineage be uncovered, he would possess a small store of coin to safeguard him, for a time at least, inasmuch as gold discs could, if Ned was unable to do so in his stead.

**A/N: Alright,so I've got some reviews from people saying that Jon was too young to have carried Ice,never mind successfully steal it. Also, questions about his seeming maturity and 's my answer: 16 is considered 'maturity' in ASOIAF... the average male is not done maturing physically OR mentally by 16. There are many instances of impossible feats accomplished by CHILDREN in the books.**

**Some examples-**

**The Hound killed a guy when he was 12. That's one bad ass 12 year old! Come on, no man is going to lose a physical struggle to a 12 year old.**

**Jaime Lannister makes Kingsguard at 16. This is probably the most far fetched thing in the series in terms of age. Not to mention that he hasn't reached physical maturity, at 15 he has only had maximum 3 or 4 years of serious sword training (ie when he was strong enough to use an actual sword). Even a knight of average talent in his late 20s would easily defeat a 15 year old simply due to the fact that he 10yrs+ experience on him. The disparity is akin to turning on the television and watching NFL football and then watching high school football.**

**Loras Tyrell is 17. 17 at least is a little more plausible than 15, but still ridiculous. Jon Snow joins the Night's Watch at 14 and is almost the best swordsman there at the time, among some veterans who are at least 40 years old. Bottom line, I'm just sticking with the trend. Also, think about it .Most of us here come from good homes with financial stability and love. Jon's been plagued with magical nightmares from the time he could walk , in addition to dealing with the stigma of being a bastard. A person can't live through that sort of thing without toughening up. Also, the Ice question. Come on,it's valyrian steel! It's damn light to the location of Ice in Ned's solar is not a secret in Winterfell. It's the same kind of trustworthy nonsense that gets the Starks knows his father's day-to-day hard is it gonna be to sneak in and out,even if there's a guard tailing you? (Hint:Warg abilities). Now, on with the story!**


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